


The Execution of All Things

by Gay_as_fuck



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Мор. Утопия | Pathologic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Crossover, Found Family, Gen, Human Experimentation, Minor Canonical Character(s), POV Alternating, Pathologic 2 - Freeform, References to Mental Health Issues, there are more specific warnings in the notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gay_as_fuck/pseuds/Gay_as_fuck
Summary: A Colonel is sent to investigate a murder, a killer uncovers a conspiracy, and a sacrifice does her best to alter the course of history.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. In which the Flame Colonel arrives on the scene

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! I don't know exactly how far i'll go with this au but I love the idea so here we are. The title is from a Rilo Kiley song of the same name, which is a Massive danko song btw. Shoutout to my dear sweet friend io who beta'd this for me.
> 
> There is some 𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗲, 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 and 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 in this chapter so watch out! I'll update tags and triggers as I go along. I will be playing fast and hard with the plot.

The only thing that could be seen of Isador Burakh were his boots. The worn black jackboots poked out from under the formerly white sheet, now stained brown with blood. The officer's coat that had first been thrown over him was now crumpled in a pile in the corner. The jacket hid the blood better than the sheet, simply turning to a midnight blue, but both articles reeked. The smell of rot permeates the entire room, clinging to the walls and leaking out from under the door. Colonel Daniil Dankovsky had been warned of the scent when he had arrived and waved off the facemask he had been offered. He found himself regretting it and resisting the urge to plug his nose as he stared down at the sheet. 

"Smells, doesn't it?" Private Dove remarked, voice muffled as she held her nose. Dankovsky was resisting the urge himself, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He nodded more harshly than perhaps he had intended. 

"I'm used to the scent Private." He took a step away from Dove and towards the body, nudging it with his corpse. He was used to the smell of rot, painfully so. It's nauseating effect had lessened over the years yet never quite vanished completely.

"I am too, sir. There's something special about this one," Private Dove shifted back and forth as Dankovsky walked the scene, tracing the lines of furniture with his white gloves. The fingertips came away brown with dust, drawing a further frown from the man. The room hadn't been used in at least a week outside of the shuffle of officers. The lights flickered off then on again with ease, the dark revealing no secrets. He adjusted chairs and spied into desks, dragging up nothing of note. As he finished his inspection, a day later than the official search but no less important, he returned to Dove's side. 

"Major Olgimsky found him first." Dove explained, sensing the desires of her commanding officer. "You'll probably get more information out of him." Dankovsky kept his eyes on the sheet, not once turning towards the Private as he spoke. 

"Where is Major Olgimsky?" The question was more of an afterthought than anything else. Dankovsky's mind was elsewhere, considering the veritable genius whose body he was watching. 

"Taking a smoke break out back. He was on guard duty but the smell was getting to him." Dove muttered something to herself too low for Dankovsky to hear, though he could imagine the probable basis of her complaint. 

"You've kept vigil long enough. Retrieve the Major for me, I have a few questions for him." Private Dove nodded and quickly took her leave with a sigh of relief. This time, as she left, he could make out her grumbling; something about spoiled lunch. He removed his pocket watch, oiled to a silver shine, to confirm the time. It was far too late for lunch, though he supposed Isidor did not make for a good lunchmate in such a condition. 

Alone, he took another sweep of the room while attempting to reimagine the scene in his mind. Isidor Burakh, or rather, Major Isidor, had not been a combat alchemist of much esteem. In fact, his skill was restricted to healing. In life, he had been known as the Life-Stitching alchemist, who had managed to extend the life of an average man, his close colleague Simon Kain. According to reports of Simon Kain's life was that the man had been on death's door when he came to Burakh's door nearly 50 years ago, already at an extremely advanced age. The major had extended Kain's life, returning him to peak health in the process. The two had lived together, remaining out of the public spotlight, only occasionally emerging to submit articles for the local university paper. 

Dankovsky had read all of them twice. He had made full use of his professional and government connections in hopes of getting sent to East City for a chance to meet with the man. He had refused all of Dankovsky's letters over the past four years and his deployment here had been his final chance. Any chance at solving life's great mysteries had died with Burakh. He was struck suddenly by the urge to slam his foot against the dead man's skull, and had pulled back his foot to do just so, when footsteps interrupted him. 

He turned away from the body, pushing down the strange destructive impulse that had suddenly come over him. Major Olgimsky was at the door, his face screwed up in misery though he was clearly attempting to hide it. He was a relatively short man, and slim despite what his father's appearance might suggest. He kept his hair short and his uniform well-ironed despite its clear need for replacement, though his coat was missing. He saluted Dankovsky as soon as the two made eye contact. 

"Colonel Dankovsky." His greeting was curt and his eyes were locked on his superior. 

"At ease Major, I have to ask you a few questions." He could not help but smile to himself as he spoke, coming into his own control. He had interacted little with the Junior Olgimsky in the past. Despite this, Dankovsky was at ease addressing his inferior; He doubted the man had half the wit of his father. 

"You were the first on the scene." It wasn't a question, though the Major nodded anyways. He was still tense, despite having been told to stand at ease. 

"I was. I wouldn't have known who the victim was if it hadn't been reported to me. The first thing I noticed was the smell." His voice tightened as he spoke, hesitating at the end of his statement. Dankovsky leveled him with a stare, an unspoken command to keep speaking which Olgimsky understood and followed. 

"I found him yesterday but the medical examiners say he's been dead for a week and a half." Dankovsky turned back towards the body as Olgmisky spoke, mentally tracing a stain of blood that arched towards the bookshelf in the corner. 

"What was the cause of death?" He heard Olgimsky shift behind him, the floorboards creaking. He breathed into the silence before finally speaking.

"He, um. The back of his head and a portion of his spine had been blown to smithereens." 

"So you threw your coat over him?" There was a moment of silence where Olgimsky presumably nodded and then caught himself, remembering where Dankvosky's attention laid. 

"Yes. I had to cover it. No one should look at something like that." Self-pity soaked through Olgimsky's voice, choking him. Dankovsky furrowed his brow and once again was met with the urge to attack the body in front of him. 

"Who was responsible for reporting this?" He slipped one hand into his pocket and worried his fingers over the chain of his pocket watch. He had seen his share of dead bodies and murder scenes, yet something here did not match. Why kill Isidor Burakh, a man who had dedicated his life to public service and healing. The picture was incomplete, that much was clear. 

"Simon Kain. He apparently lived with the victim for many years. He's the main suspect in the case at the moment." 

"Kain? He was a healer, and certainly not the sort of man who'd kill." Olgimsky took a step forward, his eyebrow lifted. 

"You can't say that. He was the last person to see the Major alive." Dankovsky tightened his fingers around the chain and pushed his shoulders further back, staring down the Major. Olgimsky shrunk back slightly but did not give up his ground. 

"That is enough." Dankovsky's voice was underlined with steel, refusing to accept the seed of doubt Olgimsky was attempting to plant. He took a breath to steady himself and reign his temper in, no matter how little he desired too. 

"What else can you tell me about the crime? Ignore the motive for now." There was no way Victor Kain would have killed the man who saved his life. Major Olgimsky's ignorance of the victim's life would not convince him otherwise. 

"There was something of a struggle. The killer tried to right the room again, but certain things were out of place." Dankovsky's eyes traced the room again in a vain attempt to judge whatever had been moved. He found nothing and let out a sharp grunt of breath. 

"The cause of death made that clear enough, Major. Now tell me, what did the killer change?" Olgimsky started forwards, moving first to the writing desk in the corner. Dankovsky followed after him, purposefully knocking against Olgimsky's ankle as he did so. The major stumbled slightly in response but stayed upright and said nothing of it. He laid a black-gloved hand on the lacquered wood into which deep groves had been cut. The Colonel brushed his white gloves against it, coming back only slightly browned. 

"There are scratches on the floor from when this was pushed aside. This part of the room was the most affected." Olgimsky motioned to the bookshelf Dankovsky had noticed earlier. The wooden floorboard bore telltale marks of the bookcase having been moved as well, perhaps pushed back into its place against the wall. His frown deepened at that and he crouched down to expect it further. A centimeter of discoloration edged the wall on this side of the bookcase, more proof that it had been moved. Something settled wrong in Dankovsky's guy at the idea, tracing his fingers over the dark wood. 

"Was anything stolen?" Dankovsky asked as he pushed himself back to his feet. Major Olgimsky had retracted his hands from the writing desk, his face still tight with discomfort. 

"We think a notebook was stolen." Dankovsky flinched at that, his hackles raising. The pink blush of indignation spread across his face, earning a disapproving glare from the Major. 

"You're exactly as coldhearted as they told me to expect." He almost sputtered at the accusation as his loose hands turned to fists. Olgimsky continued with the tone of a teacher at the end of their rope. "You care more for his research than his life."

"His research was his life!" Dankovsky spit out, taking a step forward to assert his power. Major Olgimsky was only slightly taller than he was, but the discrepancy only fueled his rage further. 

"An alchemist lives to expand their understanding of the universe. We would be nothing without our minds, it is what separates us from dogs like you. You are dismissed by the Major. If I see your face again I will personally call for an investigation into your professional conduct." Dankovsky took a heavy breath as he finished his tirade, pointing one finger towards the door. The Major had paled and nodded once he was sure Dankovsky had finished. 

"Of course, sir." He ducked his head and hastily left the room. Alone with the body again, Dankovsky continued to pant and boil with rage. He spun on a dime to face Burakh and barked out an insult against the man as well. 

"Nothing to say then." It wasn't a question, yet the silence that followed reminded Dankovsky that he was shouting at a corpse. He lowered his shoulders and let out a long sigh in an attempt to calm himself down again. When he was reasonably functional once more he returned his attention to the bookshelf. It seemed there was nothing to be done but to push it open. He leaned his weight against the wood and pushed with his shoulder. 

The shelf creaked as he did so, but slid inch by inch. After a few strong pushes, the shelf had been adjusted, revealing a trap door below it. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face as he crouched down to inspect it further. The trap door bore remarkable similarities to a pothole cover, only this time with a handle to wrench it open. Dankovsky grabbed the latch with both hands and pulled. The door opened with a creaking groan before slamming back down with a slam. 

As Dankovsky had moved the metal seal the smell of shit and rot had overwhelmed him. The scent itself had been too overpowering, and now he held his hands over his nose, resisting the urge to vomit near the corpse. There was certainly something down there, something distinctly unpleasant. He steadied himself this time as he removed bandages from his medkit to tie over his mouth and nose. He gulped and held his breath as he opened the door once again, pushing it into a permanently open position. He let out a tentative sigh and took a shallow breath in. Nausea threatened to win out again, but he breathed through it, settling his rolling stomach somewhat. 

He took as deep a breath as he could without getting sick and took out his electronic torch. It felt heavier in his hand than it had on his belt as he flashed it down the tunnel. There were rungs dug into the side, mimicking a pothole once again. There seemed to be a landing within sight. He returned the torch to his belt, flicking it off to preserve its battery, and began his descent. 

He made his way down the rungs quickly, finding the landing with ease. The walls around him were concrete and, when illuminated by the torch, visibly smeared with blood. He had to pause and lean against them, breathing shallowly. The smell was worse here, only something he could barely stand with a hand clamped over his nose. This was the smell of the worst nights in Ishval, though even then he could simply obliterate the rotting bodies completely. Here, decay and concrete seemed to be all there was. 

Dankovsky steadied himself after a minute, forcing his hand to leave his face and his body upright again. There was a door facing him, on the opposite side of the landing from the rungs. It was undecorated metal, surprisingly free of bloodstains. Dankovsky tried the handle which moved with ease. He hesitated for a split second before opening the door and facing his idol's true research. No matter what he faced, surely it could not be as bad as it seemed. Isidor Burakh was a man who studied life. 

He faced a large bunker, the edges packed with mostly empty cages. Those that had something in them were indescribably hunks of blood, bone, and sinew. Something had ripped through this place, making whatever had been in the cages impossible to make out. To Dankvosky's side, there was a table with what seemed to be medical equipment of some sort laying haphazardly on it. The center of the room was taken up by a hulking creature that had been similarly attacked. 

He took in the sight in the blink of an eye between opening the door and ripping the bandages from his face to double over and vomit at his feet. After he had hacked up most of what had been in his stomach, throat stinging with bile, he clenched one hand around his nose again. With the other he lifted his torch, daring to examine the pile of flesh in the center of the room. Whatever it had been in life, it certainly was no longer that. It had the body of a giant, with hooves instead of hands or feet, and of course brown hair covering it. A bloody stump was where the things head had once been. Carnage and rot dripped from the creature, flowing viciously and unable to sink into the floor. Dankvosky could hardly look at the creature without vomiting again. 

He turned quickly to go, pressing his hand over the bloody print on the inside of the door. He understood now that the blood being tracked had not been in Major Burakh's hands. The killer had known, somehow, what was being kept down here. Dankovsky gritted his teeth as he took the extra seconds to return his torch to its original position before climbing back up the rungs. He was placing his hands over the smeared blood of a killer's mark. He breached back into the light and stumbled towards the door, overwhelmed by the sight he had just held witness to. 

He understood now why Major Olgimsky's first impulse had been to throw his coat over Isador Burakh's body. It was horrific, too much for a single person to be able to stand. Dead bodies, carnage, mutilation, they were nothing new to him, but the great beast in Isidor's lab had been. His idol, the man he had struggled so long to meet, had been doing something of note there, though Dankovsky was still unsure if he could condemn the creation of such creatures. 

As he lay his hand on the front door knob, it was opened from the outside by a startled looking Private Dove. She examined him, gaze pausing for a moment at the blood and puss clinging to his boots, then stepping aside to let him out. Taking in a deep breath of clean air he steadied himself, finding his brain coming back into working order. The Private gave him a minute to calm himself before speaking. 

"Sir, I'm sorry to have interrupted you, but I think you'll want to see this." He was grateful for the distraction, though he didn't show it. He followed behind the Private as she brought him around the corner where Major Olgimsky was struggling with a skinny 15 year old. Dressed in a somewhat ratty red coat which covered her black top and military surplus pants, drawn up above chunky jackboots with a dramatic belt. Her arms were handcuffed behind her by the Major, who was looking strangely defeated as she swore at him, her red beanie and scarf threatening to fall off as she flailed away from him.

"Hello Fullmetal punk." Dankovsky grumbled, his side of his mouth twitching up in annoyance. She turned her attention from harassing Olgimsky to glare at the Colonel. 

"Is your memory getting bad in your old age?" She smiled though it was dripping with malice, "I've told you my name is Clara."


	2. In which the Killer thinks things over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it clear i'm both a scar fan and an artemy fan? I don't think they're bad people, they're just in Really bad situations that demand dramatic reactions. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is unbeta'd because of some irl timing complications 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Small animals should like barns, Artemiy Burakh reasoned as he took a step inside the building. That had not been the only motivating factor in the choice, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt. The boy in his arms, if he could still be called that, was heavy, though still lighter than he should have been. Burakh spared a moment to stare down at the boy's face.

His eyes were screwed shut, not peaceful even in sleep, and his hair a dusty brown. They were the only natural features of his face. The rest had been dramatically thinned yet blunt, giving him the features of a rodent. His mouth, lipless and wide, was filled with the sharp teeth of a predator. He had barred them at Burakh in the dark of his father’s laboratory, half cornered beast and half scared boy. 

The rest of his body echoed those odd shapes, compact and streamlined in a way humans are not meant to be. It did not make him horrific, nor a monster, but it set him apart at a glance. The boy had not told him his name, so Burakh mentally christened him Sticky as he laid him down in a pile of hay. The barn itself was stuffy, the air thick with floating grain, that calmed Burakh almost instinctively. He had lived the past ten years of his life in hiding, the first lesson it had taught him was that he was safest when crowded in and surrounded.

Sticky shifted slightly where he lay, one of his furry arms twitching in dreamless slumber. Burakh set his pack down by the boy and went to investigate their hideout further. The barn was a good distance from the farmhouse and was devoted to the storage of hay, as many in the east of Amestris were. The barn itself was well stocked, apples stored away and peach jam practically bursting from their jars. He stuffed as many apples in his pocket as he could, and slipped a jam jar into his pack. 

They were safe for the night at least. Burakh watched the sun as it sank below the rolling green hills, setting the countryside on fire for the blink of an eye. He turned from it, a shiver running along his upper arm, and settled down into the hay. 

Sticky was still sleeping, his chest rising and falling in the last of the light. Burakh removed the lantern from his pack and struck a match to light it. The soft glow illuminated them both as he took a moment to simply breathe and be. 

Something rustled softly in the upper stores, a mouse or vole looking for its latest treat. His stomach rumbled at the thought and he pulled an apple from his pocket. They were fruits of blood, dripping in red and wet with juice. He almost couldn’t bring himself to bite in and remember the horrors of what his father had been doing. 

He shook the thought free, unwilling to consider it while there were still so many questions. It did not matter at the moment why he had done what he did, only that he dealt with the fallout. He sunk his teeth in with a crunch, juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it free with the back of his bare hand. The silence of the countryside was apparent as he finished the first apple and then another, his stomach rolling slightly as he did so. 

The memory of Oyun was still with him. As he stared out into the darkness he could see the whites of his eyes, could hear “Burakh” scratching its way out of his throat. He knew that the memory would be with him always. It was Oyun’s eyes that had kept him from lunch, Oyun’s voice that boiled his blood. 

The man who had served his father faithfully for so many years. He had carried Burakh on his back when he had been young, whooping as he pointed towards the sun. In the years before the war, another thought he dared not dwell on, Oyun had bandaged his wounds and taught him how to throw a punch. 

The scar on his arm itches at the memory of sun-soaked Ishval. With the last gulp of his meal, he raises his right arm towards the lamplight. He knows the dangers of lighting it in a place practically meant to burn but he cannot bring himself to care. The warmth of it flickers against his open palm and he aches for it to be a bonfire. 

The shape of his right hand, still red with flecks of blood. It will always be stained with the color of sacrilege. A mass of blood, bone, and nerve that should not exist any longer. It is his arm, and it is not. The act was a crime and it was mercy. He grunts and clenches his jaw with enough force to bite through his own tongue. 

He imagines himself knocking the lantern to the ground and watching the barn go up in smoke. Fire would be the wrong way to go, tainted by the demons that had destroyed his home. He looks at the boy again, sticky, and stops in his tracks. The moment comes back to him and the smoke clears from his mind. It would be wrong to end it here, despite the way his body twitches with the desire from destruction. 

Anger is a rock in his gut, but he cannot let it consume him, not when he has just saved a life. The idea of responsibility calms him and puts his world in focus once again. The boy’s presence here confounds him, even considering that Burakh brought him here. Sticky had not gone about endearing himself to him. His attitude had been far more violent than his father, or Oyun, who had both been startlingly calm. 

While Oyun had stared and gurgled, his father had grabbed hold of his arm. The hold had not been rough, only a last chance attempt to keep him from turning away. That had been the last straw, the feeling of his father’s hand on his arm, trying to guide him again. Sticky had bit and swore until he passed out. He wasn’t hiding his malice nor explaining in that condescending tone why this was the right path. So he had carried him away instead of blowing his brains out. 

He let out a sigh, feeling hollow all of a sudden, and blew out the lantern. His hands were steady and his eyes dry as he settled down across from the Sticky. He could no longer see the boy’s outline against the hay but could hear his breathing. 

He listened to it as he lay there, still as he possibly could be. Counting the half seconds between his and Sticky's breaths were enough to keep the thoughts of his father at bay. He blinked his eyes closed to the sound. 

Then, he heard the sound of his bag being opened. He pushed himself up, blinking rapidly to make sense of the scene. Sticky had paused under Burakh’s gaze with one hand still in the backpack. He would have thought the moment frozen in time if not for the rise and fall of their chests. 

“Go ahead and eat.” Burakh broke the silence as the fog in his head cleared. It had become morning in the seconds between when he closed his eyes and now. Warm light filtered through the high barn window, turning the hay golden. Sticky withdrew the apple quickly at his words, breaking off and swallowing a huge chunk, his eyes never straying from Burakh. 

“Why did you do all that?” He had calmed down from the day before. It was reassuring to be questioned in such a way. Now, he was sure that Sticky had somehow avoided Oyun’s particular fate. 

“Straight to the point then.” He considered reaching for the provisions from his bag but stopped himself for the moment. “I did it because I wanted to.” 

“Bullcrap. You’re his son, I heard him talk about it.” Burakh resisted the urge to chuckle at that by clearing his throat. 

“I had not seen the man in ten years. You saw what he did to Oyun, are you telling me I'm wrong to have killed them.” He blushed at that and crossed his arms, seeming more of a child than could have been gleaned from his performance the day before. 

“Well,” He still met Burakh’s gaze definitely, “it was always Artemiy this and Artemiy that. How was I supposed to know any different.” 

“Don’t trust people you don’t know. I could have been a murderous asshole.” Burakh’s mouth ticked up at that. The sudden shift in situation had unsettled him in a strange way. He was hollow on the inside yet it allowed him to float along on the stream, at least for now.

“Well, uh,” he spoke around the last bite of his apple, “how do you know I’m not one.” Burakh tilted his head to the side in response, examining the boy. Of course, he wasn’t a killer, He had soft hands and scared eyes. Still, that was not enough.”

“I suppose I have no way of knowing. If you tell me more about yourself you might convince me you’re not.” Sticky fiddled with his apple stem and finally turned his gaze away. There was still a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. 

“Spichka.” He muttered, turning a burningly angry gaze towards the ground. “My mother called me Spichka.” 

“Spichka it is then.” He stood slowly, stretching his arms above himself. The popping of his spine as he became aware of his body once again. Anger twinged in his stomach as the world settled in around him. 

“I didn’t say you could call me that!” Burakh’s lip twitched at that. The boy flinched as a hand was reached out to ruffle his hair but didn’t pull away after that. His hair was softer than it should have been, mixed with the texture of fur. 

“Would you rather I call you Sticky?” Teasing a child should probably not bring him a vague amusement, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Sticky or Spichka, Spichka or Sticky.” Burakh understood that the whisper had not been intended for him. He left the boy to consider as he slipped his backpack over his shoulders. There were enough there to last them the day if they ate light. 

“You can decide as we walk.” Sticky stood slowly, tossing the core of his apple to the side. With his arms hanging limply at his side he turned his eyes to Burakh. 

“Where are we going?” Burakh was stopped in his tracks at the memory of the last person who had asked him that. The words “I do not know” stuck in his throat as he swallowed. 

“We can’t stay here.” Sticky let out a grumble as he turned away from the boy and started out the door. 

“That’s not an answer.” The green fields that lay outside the barn banished the ghosts of Burakh’s past. Instead, the current sin came to light. 

“A trade then. If I tell you something about your dad then you have to tell me where we’re going.” Sticky was at his side, a piece of straw held between his teeth. 

“Alright,” removing his map from his bag he handed it to Sticky, “hold onto that. We’re going to East City.” He could practically hear Sticky resisting the urge to ask why. He trailed his fingers along the marked road, winding towards the star that marked the city. 

“Where are we?” Sticky trailed behind slightly as he focused on the map. His eyebrows furrowed as he spoke. 

“The red dot is his house.” He fumbles with the phrasing there. Can it still be his father’s house if his father is dead? It would have to be. “We’re somewhere near there. We need to orient ourselves with the road before we start through the fields.” 

Sticky kept turning his eyes from the map to the skyline as they walked. Burakh moved with his memory, following his feet towards the road he had taken to meet his father. They walked in silence for a few moments, the soft sounds of the farmlands surrounding them. 

“He talked about you a lot.” Sticky’s voice dripped with jealousy as he kept his eyes away from Burakh.

“What did he say.” He encouraged as best he could. He did his best to walk the balance between his actual level of interest and the apathy of his voice. Sticky had mentioned it before, but it had not been the right time. 

“He talked like you died.” A sharp breath out. “I drew all over your notebooks, I hope you're not mad.” His heart ached tight in his chest. Emotions he did not care to name swirled around inside of him, biting at his neck. 

He did not have the time to consider it. He had learned so much at his father’s knee, and so much of it had been wrong. He had been told that some believed blood, bone, and nerve were all that made a man before his father had refuted it. The memories were sun-drenched and sweet yet they burned with anguish. 

Give and take, his father had taught, were not positive or negative. They existed outside morality as the fundamental machinery of the universe and went beyond flesh and into the immortal soul. If they were a god, they had simply set things in motion. He had been shown the other path. One who had worked in the machinery of this world knows there is nothing without cruelty or kindness. 

“Why are we going to East City,” Sticky’s voice drew Burakh out of his musings once again. The boy had failed to completely reign in the impulse to ask. He grunted before his response, unsure of what answer the boy would accept.

“It’s easier to lose ourselves in a crowd.” He slowed his walk as the road came into view. The beaten path was wide for the country road, stretching out into the sun. Sticky kept close by his side, shielding his eyes as he searched for a sign. 

“We’re already lost now. Which way is East City anyways.” He held the map up towards the road as a frown formed on his face. Burakh sighed and adjusted his backpack, doing his best to remember where exactly they were. 

“Left.” He turned from the road quickly, still thankful for the lack of travelers. His jaw tightened as he noticed the complete lack of cover. At least far from the road they might appear to be a farmer and son for unsuspecting travelers. 

“Why isn’t East City just east of us?” Sticky posited, his thumb pressed against the map’s compass rose. 

“It can’t move in relation to us.” He refused to think of how he sounded like his own father. 

“Then why don’t you remember how to get back?” Sticky, who had been lagging behind, trotted back up to his side.

“Yesterday was,” he paused for a moment letting out a heavy breath, “disorienting, to say the least.” 

“It’s alright, it happens to us all.” Burakh spared him a glance at that, one eyebrow lifted. He was hanging his head to show sympathy. Chuckling would be an insult to the kid but he couldn’t help it. Sticky’s response was to return the confused glance, though clearly irked. 

“Why did you do that?” He had failed to mask his clear annoyance with Burakh. 

“Pay no mind to it, Sticky.” Despite the overdramatic sigh it earned from his companion, the boy did not complain, and stuck close ot Burakh’s side


	3. In which more is seen of the Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual, but it took me a while to figure out how to write Clara. My wonderful beta was able to help me with this chapter so send some love her way. 
> 
> This chapter includes 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 and 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Clara rubbed her wrists, still pink from Olgimsky’s handcuffs, and shot the Colonel her fiercest glare. To his credit, he didn’t break her gaze, though he shifted his weight slightly to seem more intimidating. It didn’t work from where he was sitting behind his desk.

“I know what you’re going to say.” She bit out as he opened his mouth to speak, a ray of late afternoon light stretching across his mouth. 

“Oh really?” Dankovsky all but sneered. He leaned in closer and began to thrum his fingers over a rare clear spot on his desk. “And what could that possibly be?” 

“That none of this is my business, even though I’m a member of the military.” Dankovsky’s office was stuffy with only one meager window in the back of the room. There was plenty of personality to the room despite the lack of decor. Instead, books and folders crowded every shelf and congealed in piles on the floor. The size of the place was an insult to his rank, and the clutter removed any respectability. Clara resisted the urge to smile as her eyes scanned the place. 

“Your status as a State Alchemist is what makes it improper for you to be snooping around like that.” He hissed in anger, and for a moment she imagined a snake in his place. “You only have the rank of major, lest you forget.” 

“Major Olgimsky was there, surely a state alchemist would be allowed.” She kicked her boots up on the coffee table in front of her, mud dripping onto manila folders. She watched his reaction and noted the way he nearly popped a blood vessel. His face had turned red, good. 

“Major Olgimsky was assigned to that, you very clearly were not. I have been charged with the investigation so I should know.” He hit the table for emphasis, after which his fingers still. 

“No need to sneak around then.” He paused at that, quivering an eyebrow up. 

“Tell me all you know. I know there was a dead man in that house, a state alchemist.”

“How do you know that?” Clara didn’t bother to answer his question, instead, she smiled freely and dug her heel a little further into the table.

“I’ve been led to the truth by higher forces.” She fanned herself with her hand as she spoke. 

“Will you be quiet about your superstitions for once?”

“You were about to subject me to the same discipline speech I’ve heard a thousand times before. Repeating yourself would be a mistake.” She stretched her back, analyzing the situation as best she could. Dankovsky had confirmed the presence of a killer, not that it had been hard to deduce that, but there was something in that house he did not intend for her to find out. 

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to discourage this behavior.” It wasn’t much of a question, though Clara answered anyways. 

“Of course not, as an Alchemist it is my duty to understand the world.” She clapped her hands and laid them on the table, a section curling up into fish hooks. Dankovsky stood suddenly, a grumble already on his lips. He was far too easy to wind up. 

“Could you not-” He cut himself off with a shake of his head, “You’re a state alchemist. We operate by different rules, there’s a reason they call us ‘dogs’”. 

“So we can sniff out situations of course.” She slipped her feet from the table and took a few steps over to Dankovsky. He glared down at her, though she ignored it. 

“It’s a complicated situation, nothing I’ve seen before. You’ll know everything once we’ve caught the killer. That’s all I can tell you.” His gaze softened as he leveled her with an understanding expression. She nodded and turned from him to exit the room. 

“That’s as much as I’ll be able to get out of you then.” She waved as she spoke, the other hand comfortable in her pocket. “Even though I know nothing about the killer, I’m sure I’ll be safe.” 

“If you die, it’ll be your fault,” Dankovsky grumbled as she laid her hand on the doorknob, waiting for a breath. He did, a heavy sigh and the scraping of boots. 

“Fine, fine. I have reason to believe that this was not a crime of passion. Don’t believe anything Olgimsky, or anyone else for that matter, tells you about the killer.” His fussiness had turned to genuine destain. Clara perked up slightly, waiting on another admission. It didn’t come. 

“It’d be a shame if I caught the killer before you did. Or if he got to you first.” She left before the Colonel could get in the last word. The door swung shut with a resounding slam, and she was alone again. She gave herself a moment to let out a sigh, the tension of a long day barely lessening. 

She followed her feet as she left the building, tracing the lines of the floor and considering what information she had managed to gather. Dankovsky hadn’t been much help at all, but he had said many interesting things. The death of a State Alchemist was usually an anger-inducing affair. The Powers that Be took nothing but pride in stoking the anger of the people against those who would dare disrupt the peace. 

The propaganda left a rancid taste in her mouth, but its absence was a sign of something far darker. Mold cannot simply be cut out-- whatever corruption was at play was larger than the colonel had realized. 

It wasn’t hard for her to imagine what the dead man had been up to. Dankovsky had his own opinions on the matter, but there were only two reasons for a State Alchemist not to revel in the public eye. Either they had already done something so horrific that the general public could not stomach them, or they were currently in the process of doing so. Clara, of course, was the exception to the rule.

She had noticed, quite early in her career as an alchemist, the sheer corruption of the state. In no small part, she had to admit with a grimace, thanks to Colonel Dankovsky. He was aware of his situation, only in that he had been complicit in the Ishvalan “mistake”. He would not know deliberateness if it smacked him across the face.

She, on the other hand, only practiced in absolutes. For example, there was absolutely no way she was going to pay for a train ticket. She found herself at the East City Mainline Railroad Terminal and checked the listings. There was a train set to depart on an overnight trip to Dublith. She smiled and knew it was far from luck. 

There was a wait, which was to be expected, so she settled down onto a park bench. The universe intended for her to go to Dublith, and the idea drew her back into her memories. She could still imagine her room in the grand dark house, and the last thing her mentors had said to her. A bitter expression crossed her face at the idea of it. It was the last place she wanted to return, but she knew she had to. 

Beyond her sponsors, who had kicked her out as quickly as they had welcomed her in, was her best source of information. Unfortunately, he was unwilling to give out any information without something of equal value being traded. Everything she had brought to him over the years was something he already knew or possessed. 

She must have gained something he would want if God was pushing her that way. She did her best to push the thoughts of the Saburovs away from the time being. Katerina’s gifts would be useful in clearing away the uncertainty of her mission. 

She could trust that the universe would set her on the path she needed to take. So she waited for the train in the dying light without a shred of impatience. Dinner was procured by hooking her hand into a rich man’s pocket. The last of the sun slipped down behind the rows of apartments as Clara smiled at the bedraggled man working the train station cafe. With two sandwiches under her arm, she returned to the bench she had staked out, only to find a stranger there. 

She was a young girl tucked into a large jacket with dirt smudged across the bridge of her nose. She twitched as she noticed Clara’s arrival despite the alchemist’s light steps. Clara did not let the girl’s presence stop her. She settled right down at her side, scanning the tracks once again. Her focus only shifted as she noticed the girl’s hand inching covertly towards the sandwiches still held between her arms.

“You can have one if you’d like.” Clara held one out towards the girl, who tilted her head up slightly but did not make eye contact. 

“Thank you.” She muttered, quickly drawing the meal back in towards herself. Unwrapping the wax paper she began to gobble up the meal, hardly sparing Clara another glance. She was fine with that-- the train was not set to arrive for a while now. She undid the bindings on her own meal and set about eating her dinner. It was the sort of meal she had expected, slathered with mustard to add excitement to bland deli meats. It was not delicious, though she found these sorts of foods comforting. The taste of mustard would linger long after she had grown hungry again, the memory of a full stomach.

For now, she was satiated, and her time could be spent watching people. Despite her admittedly garish outfit, she often went ignored. Some truly saw her, who found their own feet carrying them before her, but they were few and far between. She was not invisible, simply obscure, like a murmur. One could hear her if they were just tuned right. 

Her companion did not seem to be, or perhaps the meal was simply too tempting. From the corner of her eye, Clara watched as a rat peaked its nose out of the girl’s coat and nibbled on the end of the sandwich. Eventually, the girl ripped off a piece and offered it to her pet which had wormed its way next to Clara. She reached down to scratch the rat right behind the ears. It chittered, enjoying the sensation. 

Those passing by the bench remained oblivious to Clara’s moment of perfect peace. They tucked up their jackets against the early September breeze and kept their eyes on the ground. She caught snippets of conversation, mentions of birthdays, romance, and death, though mostly what she heard were shopping plans and small talk. Once, she might have criticized such conversations for their lack of substance, but now she only smiled. Birth and death were as meaningless as dinner plans in the grand scheme of the universe. 

Soon enough she was forced to move from the bench, quickly disposing of the sandwich wrapper, and leaving the dark-haired girl to herself. She moved quickly, staying clear of the station lights and cloaked in darkness. Well to do and shabby passengers alike were ushered into the train car. She waited perfectly still by the edge of the tracks, crouched down behind a post. The engineers did not see her as they boarded, nor as they conducted a final check of the train. 

She laid her hands on the concrete, testing for the telltale rumble of the train before departure. She could feel the hum in the earth and the invisible yoke of stillness it had yet to shake off. She felt her ride hitch once, then twice, through its vibrations before jumping to her feet as the wheels turned a quarter of an inch. She was on the back in a flash, hosting herself up and crouching into the corner of the viewing deck, the back of her coat to the world. Lights flashed over her, passing as quickly as they came. She turned her attention to the door for a moment, removing her lockpick’s kit.

She counted her breaths as the minutes passed, mentally following the path of the ticket master. The sounds of polished shoes on wooden flooring, covered by the train’s own song. He would check each passenger, then open the hatch on to the roof. She could hear the screech of poorly oiled metal as the thought crossed her mind. With a smile, she opened the door, sliding into the very back of the car, closing the door with practiced silence. The passengers were none the wiser, their eyes fixed forwards. 

She kept her focus on the hatch, ears straining for a pause in the footsteps or the muffled screech of metal sliding against itself. When both came, she was already halfway out the door and gone before the ticket master could hear the closing door. She scrambled up onto the top of the train, hidden from any passenger looking for fresh air or a smoke break, and hunkered down. The wind sent a chill across her flesh, though she ignored it as best she could, preparing for a long night.


End file.
